tattoos, booze, and mischief.

June 2, 2013

Look at me; side-eye my filth.

I wear it proudly.

The script on my bicep – booze and mischief it might as well say. The bright reds and blues peeking from under my sleeves and buttons scream GANG! UNEDUCATED! and the soft purples and yellows whisper I don’t know any better… help me… I’m dirty…

Where was my mother? As I was desecrating this flawless temple to which she gave birth?
Undoubtedly wallowing in a seedy motel in the underbelly of a city with a needle or stranger inside her. Maybe she’s flung over the arm of a well-worn sofa wracked with tears and wonder of where she went wrong.

My mother is fine, thank you.

Her cheeks are dry as she’s raised no heartless rebel, no predator nor prostitute, no deranged outcast of society. She has to pray for me no harder than she prays for you and all of your ill-perceived notions.

You have reminders and lists in your purse that read, To-Do: Speak kindly today. Have patience today. Be a better person today.

I do not look at your lipstick and assume your character, morals or lack thereof by its shade. I do not determine your intelligence by your personal presentation of aesthetics.
I also do not hide my memories in albums, my hopes deep in my pockets, my reminders on folded slips of neatly lined paper, nor my art and opinions inside four walls.